


Gotcha Back

by Omorka



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7889311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike and Micky are engaging in something that is not exactly a prank war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotcha Back

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Mike and Micky, subtle kindnesses" from averyextraordinaryscene over on Tumblr. Not really intended to be shippy, but if you like Dolenzmith or just bro-ship them you'll probably still find something to like here.

Mike trudged heavily up the spiral staircase, his boot-heels ringing on every step. Somehow, despite the day’s escapades being relatively minor for them - Davy had fallen for a hotel magnate’s daughter, and in the process of wooing her he’d stumbled upon illegal gambling going on in the hotel bar; they’d led the dastardly dealers on a merry chase right into the arms of the police - he was worn out, both from physically running from this week’s lawbreakers and from the sheer emotional burden of trying to keep Davy, Micky, and Peter from getting lost or hurt in the process. Just herding Peter and Micky when they were scared and overexcited was a lot to deal with, never mind Davy and his crush du jour.

Mike sat down heavily on his bunk and began prying his boots off. At least the weather had been nice; he didn’t have to deal with rain, or mud, or even just the sweat he’d’ve worked up pulling this stunt in Texas. He might even be able to wear this shirt again before laundry day, which meant they could put that expense off a little longer. Thank heavens the other guys understood the need for frugality, even if they weren’t always good at it.

He stood up to shrug his shirt off when he saw it. Had he made his bed this morning? He was almost sure he hadn’t; they’d been woken up early this morning, not by the alarm clocks, but by Peter freaking out because Davy was missing. He’d thrown on whatever clothes were near at hand and run out the door behind a groggy Micky and a tearful Peter.

Leaning down, he inspected the bed. Despite the indentations left from his sitting on it, the bed was definitely made, although not well. The sheets had been tugged almost straight, and the bedspread hastily arranged on top of it, tilted slightly the other way. Mike wouldn’t have left it like that; if he were going to make a bed, he’d do a proper job with military corners. Someone else had noticed, and had remembered that he didn’t like sitting directly on the sheets.

He glanced across the room. Micky’s bed looked like a tornado had hit it, as usual.

Mike shrugged and reached for his pajamas.

\---

Micky stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair briskly in a vain attempt to keep it from turning into a pile of snarls immediately. It didn’t take him long to sigh, give up, and reach for a comb. Letting one of Davy’s exes flat-iron his hair had always taken too long, the ocean breeze always undid it by the next day anyway, and now that she was out of cosmetology school she wouldn’t do it for free anymore, but he had to admit that sometimes it had been easier than dealing with his natural curls.

He shoved his legs into a pair of surfer shorts and shrugged a mostly-clean t-shirt on. The jar in the kitchen almost had enough change in it to do laundry; if they didn’t have to raid it for hot dog money, they could probably afford to make a laundromat run on Friday. Micky tugged the comb through his hair again, scowled at the results, stepped into his flip-flops, and threw open the bathroom door to let the steam dissipate.

No one else seemed to be ready for rehearsal yet. Mike and Peter had left to pick up some new strings, and Davy was off giving his latest love-her-and-leave-her the current iteration of his it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk. Micky had figured that showering the beach sand out of his hair would take long enough for at least the two guitarists to make it back, but apparently either traffic was bad or Peter hadn’t been able to make a decision again.

Micky bounced across the room to the bandstand. He could go ahead and warm up without the others, anyway. Trotting back and forth across the makeshift stage, he toned a few vowels and an arpeggio or two, practicing breathing from his chest and projecting; it was surprisingly hard to sing over the drums, even with a good microphone.

Satisfied with his vocal warm-ups, he sat down at the drums and ran the kit, from the hi-hat down to the kick drum and back up. Something sounded off, but he wasn’t quite sure what, so he tested each drum and cymbal in turn. Each one sounded fine alone; he did a quick solo to test the whole kit again.

It wasn’t that something sounded _wrong_ ; something was _missing_.

It took another solo for him to realize what it was; the kick pedal wasn’t squeaking. Every salesman always said the pedals were fine for both left-footed and right-footed drummers, and they were always wrong, so whenever Micky used one for long enough it developed a squeak. But this one was silent as a churchmouse.

He ducked down to the floor and peered at it. It was still the scuffed-up, slightly dented pedal he’d been using for a year. The mallet end was still greying and starting to fuzz out. He pressed it with one hand; it rapped the bass drum without a peep. Someone had greased it for him, which had probably involved taking it apart.

Grinning, he poked at it with his index finger. “So, you got me back, Mike?” he said to the empty air in the general direction of the guitar stand. “I guess I have to raise the stakes.”

He wondered when the last time Mike’s boots had gotten a good polishing was.


End file.
